The Invisible Mourner
by Fancy-Hart
Summary: Written for Y5 House Competition. Prompt : [event] Waking up as a ghost


Team: Eagles

Class: Potions,

Story: Standard

Prompt: Waking up as a Ghost

Word Count: 1044

Severus had once heard a muggle-born student speak of her squib psychiatrist mother, and how she had asked one of her patient's to write his own eulogy. Living as he did, one foot in, one foot out of each side of the war - it struck him that there would probably be nobody to write his eulogy when he was gone. For some reason, the idea had stuck with him, and for the next few nights he had stared into the fire in his chambers, firewhiskey in hand as he tried to create a speech he felt would be adequate. Then, if there was a funeral for him and somebody bothered to attend - maybe they could just read what he had written. He found the task to be too much for him though and it quickly became pushed to the back of his mind for thoughts on how to stay alive for as long as possible during the hellish years of the war.

Whatever he would have written, had he finished the task; it would not be what anything like the drivel Potter was spewing from the pulpit. Severus sat on the front pew, unseen, beside the female Weasley and listened to the inane poppycock that was coming from the Saviour's mouth. He knew he would live (he snorted) to regret giving the brat his memories. It was as though Potter had realised his professor was actually human after all, and suddenly all the horrendous things he had been forced to do and say to the boy were undone. He was Lily's son alright, forgiveness had always been her strength, not James'.

The talking finally finished, and Severus quickly stood to allow Harry to sit, he did not know what would happen if the boy passed through him - and he was not in an experimental mood. Next, it was Minerva's turn. He watched her, frail, bent body walking shakily up the few steps to the pulpit, weight heavy on the stick she now depended on. He was shocked to see the moisture in her eyes. She began to speak, her voice shaking softly as the words seem to choke her. She was hiding it well, but he knew her enough to know she was trying not to cry. He moved to stand in front of her. He let his hand hover over her wrinkled one that now rested on the pulpit in front of her. He could not touch her, had no way to communicate with her. She continued to speak, unknowingly staring right through him. She bowed her head and he watched a teardrop appear on the written speech she had lain in front of her. He had not expected anyone to mourn him.

It had been a shock to awaken a few moments after Potter had left him. He sat up but, well, his body hadn't. He had not expected to live through the war yet to get so close and die on the final night was like a punch to the gut. He waited around long enough to hear the tremendous cheers and watch the fireworks that signaled the defeat of the Dark- of Tom Riddle. He had stayed around to watch the wounded be taken to the hospital wing to be healed, the dead to be collected and the mourning and celebrating to begin. He had stayed around long enough to attend the funerals of the dead. He had stayed around long enough. Two weeks he stayed around, and no one had come to get him, no God, no angels, no devils - no one. It seemed even in death he was to be alone.

At first, he thought he would haunt a few of his ex-pupils. Perhaps he could amuse himself by putting true fear into the heart of the boy who lived. It was only when attempting to nudge the Gryffindor's Order of Merlin off the wall, that he realised his hand passed right through it. It seemed he was unable to actually touch anything, let alone move it. He found himself checking in on Potter a few times a day, in life he was his protector - maybe he was to protect the damn boy even in death? He could see the darkened skin around the green eyes and the obvious weight loss. Severus did not feel pity for the boy- his life had just begun.

When his funeral had ended and the crowds had departed, he stood at his fresh grave. What now? Dumbledore, the fool, had always told him death was the next great adventure. He sat down beside the pile of mud and placed his head in his hands. It dawned on him that this was the first moment in over thirty years in which he had nothing to do. No pressing matters, no plans, no master to answer to and no aches or pains from the latest bashing he had received.

He did not know how long he sat in silence, replaying the best and worst moments of his life over and over in his mind. What would he do differently? At what point had his life taken a turn so sharp that he could no longer go back? For years he had blamed the marauders and his father for their abuse and what it made him become. The simple fact was that Harry had come from a similar background, as had Black - and they had both flourished in Hogwarts while he had struggled. Was he the reason his life had ended the way it had? He groaned. The wind began to pick up, he felt it pass through his incorporeal body and leave his spine shivering. He looked up and saw clouds begin to part. A single ray of sunshine fell through the parted clouds and the silhouette of a woman appeared in front of him. The woman reached a hand to his sitting form, he grasped it and she pulled him to his feet. As he rose to his feet, the woman's features became more focused. He could also see others behind her. He focused on the infamous green of her eyes. She reached to wipe away a tear that he was unaware had fallen to his cheek.

"Lily?"

"It's time to rest Sev."


End file.
